


Rounded in a sleep

by the_irydioner



Category: The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Canon Relationships, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Prophetic Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irydioner/pseuds/the_irydioner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they live out their lives and inexorably drift towards their different destinies, the sons of York dream of broken brotherhood and of how their actions will shape England's fate and their relationship with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. Red as snow {george, richard}

 

George’s eyes snap open in the dark at the umpteenth, sharp jab in the stomach he receives.

He hasn’t been able to keep them closed longer than a second all night, and certainly not because lacking tiredness – he has always been an active child, and his energies usually get completely drained by everything he sets his mind on achieving – or because of the soft feathery bed not being comfortable. Duke Philip’s hospitality towards his two small fugitive cousins is worthy of Burgundy’s glamorous fame, more generous and magnificent than the shiniest of his dreams (and George’s mind is surely not afraid to dream big); and yet with a pout he wonders why, in spite of all the favours he’s been shown here – being treated more as an adult than he has been by anyone else in his life – the Duke still makes him share his bed with his brother like he were still an infant.

Beside him, a strangled moan escapes Dickon’s throat, and George’s eyes flicker in annoyance over his brother’s slight, troubled shape, watching him toss and turn again and again in the space of a few minutes.

What on earth is wrong with him? He’s been sharing the bed with Dickon as far as he can remember, and he can’t recall a single time he has seen him sleeping in any other way than quietly curled on his side. His little brother’s has always been a deep, placid sleep that has always made it easy for George every time it entered his head to steal the covers from him, or to place some kind of _surprise_ under his pillow – a favourite prank of his even his mother the Duchess’ legendary scolds weren’t able to put off. If this is Dickon’s way of finally paying him back for his antics, well, it isn’t very funny at all…

As if answering his silent trail of thinking, in that very moment his brother cries out and suddenly jerks up sitting, trembling in fright. George can almost see his big grey-blue eyes open wide into the darkness, as they dart around trying to focus on something, _anything_ , and finally settling their panicked orbs upon him.

Then he is rendered completely speechless when Dickon, his silent, reserved little brother, throws every ounce of dignity he has left to the wind and crushes him into a frantic hug.

“What are you doing?! Leave me alone!”

Shock makes his instinctive push a little too violent, and Dickon falls over the edge of the bed he was already precariously close to, landing on the floor with a loud _thud._ There's no single whimper of protest escaping his trembling mouth though, no reaction or movement to get up - and somehow that shocked stillness is far more wrenching than any possible outburst of tears.

Guilt assaults George instantly, but his pride imperiously demands to be kept intact; so he piles it on.

“That’s what you get for not letting me sleep all night!” he yells, turning his back on him and plunging his head obstinately back into his pillow. He isn’t really that heartless though – he just likes to let people believe it at times – and soon worry wins over the eventuality of a wounded pride.

“Dickon?”

On the cold floor, his brother is all curled up on himself, his face pressed against his knees; and his ragged breath tells George he is desperately trying not to cry.

“I saw… I saw Edmund,” he manages, his little voice a broken whisper. “I was playing in the snow, and then it went red… _everything_ went red…and he was screaming, screaming so horribly…”

 _Edmund_. For a moment George sees him as he remembers him – impossibly tall and blindingly blond, laughing softly as he pretended to be caught off guard by the combined assault of his two younger brothers. It would be a frequent sight on one of many carefree afternoons in Ludlow – Ned off who-knew-where chasing a pretty serving girl, and Dickon and himself set on keeping busy in a very different way their ever patient older brother…

The memory feels like a physical stab, a wrenching of flesh as well as mind – one almost more painful than the other vision tormenting his dreams too, the image of that very same face hung high above his head, stuck onto a bloodied pike, smiling down at him with empty eyes…

In a blink of an eye, covers are carelessly shuffled away, and George finds himself on the stone floor too, folding Dickon out of his own volition in a bone-crushing hug, in an unprecedented show of affection – comforting and seeking comfort at once, hiding his own tremor against the smaller boy's. He is grateful, so grateful now for the brother he had barely just wished to disappear from the room and leave him sleep in peace – the brother he couldn’t imagine, in truth, facing all this without.

Whatever happens, they’ll always have each other, right?

“Ned will make that _devil_ pay. He will make her,” he hears himself whisper against Richard’s dark, unruly curls. “You’ll see.”

He’ll never be sure which one of them he was really trying to convince.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello again, site, long time no see!
> 
> This past semester + summer I've basically been on a studying, studying, studying, travelling to England (some marvelous days spent at Warwick & going to Bosworth reenactment and then in London - cherry on top of the cake: meeting David Oakes for the second time after seeing the enchanting theatre adaptation of "Shakespeare in Love"), and now studying again routine. I've probably missed a world of good stories up here (and I'm quite behind with some of my favourites, too D:), but I hope I can recover some reading (& commenting) as soon as it's lesson time again...
> 
> I came back from my trip with lots of post-Bosworth and York brothers feelings, and that's where this - whatever this is - comes from. It goes through the story we all know in form of dreams/nightmares the brothers have of each other in different points of their lives. I have actually no idea if this makes as much sense written down as it does in my mind...if you like, you can stop by and tell me :)  
> (Also, this is going to feature some bits of Richanne and Gisabel, but the main focus is the brotherly bond and not the couples - that's why I haven't listed them in the relationship tag.)


	2. ii. Three suns {george}

The sudden contact with air burns his face; and the Duke, all clothed in armour, wonders why the sun should be so unnaturally blinding, forcing him to shield his eyes with one gauntleted hand.

The answer is right in front of him – it is not _the_ sun, it is _three_ suns.

Bathed into their warm light, everything around him looks vibrant, energetic, full of life – the grass covering the hill he is standing upon like a big carpet shines bright green, the sky an intense blue, and the branches of trees are heavy with full, ripe fruits.

Then, out of the blue, something terrible happens.

The middle sun starts getting brighter, stealing light from its brothers. Their gleam becomes violent, and the Duke’s eyes start burning, hurting him – yet he can’t turn his sight away from the battle raging on above him. What had looked like the perfect image of harmony just a mere moments before has turned into merciless war, dazzling rays chasing each other like a thousand flaming cannon shots, their heat like a burning inferno setting ablaze grass and trees and everything in its wake, consuming all colours in suffocating light.

And the middle sun, the balance-breaker, is losing. Its two brothers close onto it, menacing, unrelenting, until they swallow it whole; and then everything is over. Part of it explodes in a million sparks that rain down on the Duke’s head like a shower of tiny candles.

It is just while watching them fall to the ground he realizes they actually look like shattered shards from a giant, broken mirror. He finds himself surrounded by a kaleidoscope of shocked reflections of his face, staring back at him from that fallen rain of sun slivers.

 

The Duke of Clarence wakes with a start, disoriented, welcomed back from his dream by the soft sound of waves filtering through the window, and by the feathery feel of silky dark hair spread all over his chest. A delicate hand timidly traces its way along his collarbone, and when he looks down George meets Isabel’s wary eyes.

“Husband? Is all well?”

Isabel…his _wife_. He remembers now; they are in Calais and he has married her that day past, indissolubly binding himself to Warwick’s cause, ready to move against his brother the King to take his rightful place – the place Edward has lost any claim upon the moment he has let _that woman_ enter his marital bed.

He smiles tenderly at his new wife, all wide doe-like eyes and porcelain skin, reflecting the light of the moon so perfectly; she could pose as the Moon herself, a bewitching Selene. If there really is a woman worthy of being England’s Queen, he thinks, here she is, right within his arms – surely not that peasant widow with her tribe of upstart relatives, who will drag England to ruins just like the infamous Bad Queen, terror of his childhood. That of Ned’s is an unforgivable betrayal – Ned, who after all those hardships and blood and solemn oaths to right wrongs has forgotten everything he’s fought for, replacing an Anjou bitch with a Woodville one. Nor George can believe Dickon has chosen to remain by their brother’s side, faithful as a well-trained puppy - choosing Ned over _him_ and over their cousin and mentor Warwick, even when George knows perfectly well he has never been the only York son wishing to make a Neville girl his own.

No, it is his brothers in the wrong here; and soon George will make them see that.

“Just a dream, my dear. Nothing important.”

He doesn’t allow Isabel time to reply, capturing her mouth in a firm kiss while under the sheets his hands grow daring again.

_I will give you a crown, beloved,_ he thinks, letting the moon-girl beneath him eclipse the three suns of his dream from his mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gisabel-ish section, there you go :)  
> (and yes, I definitely know that the "three suns" are actually an optical phenomenon, but here it's dreamland - and it's the symbolism that matters ^_^)
> 
> Next up: Edward and a disturbing dream involving a doll.


	3. iii. The ragdoll king {edward}

 

It is rather ironic, Ned thinks.

That night, feasting in honour of his Edward’s birthday had gone on way longer than he originally expected; and he had been so genuinely happy to have his little Prince back at court, to be able to see with his own eyes how much his boy has grown, even if only for the shortest while before Anthony takes him back to Ludlow with him.

Maybe he had been even _too_ happy, because he has procured himself what is possibly the worst hangover of his life – and God knows the occasions to set amazing records in this department certainly never fall short at his court. When his bedchamber had been assaulted by his daughters, set upon bidding their father goodnight before being put to bed, he has been vaguely aware of the girls’ disappointment in finding him sprawled on the bed, barely able to lift a finger.

That is why now he finds his sharp, acute awareness that he is currently dreaming utterly nonsensical.

He's walking in the gardens at Westminster, but he senses he’s not doing it for pleasure – he’s supposed to look for something, or rather for _someone_. When he hears the echo of a sweet little voice humming ahead of him, in a few strides of his long legs he reaches the rose garden; and there she is, the object of his unknowing search.

It is a little girl dressed as a princess, no, as a small _queen_ , playing with a richly clad rag doll amongst the roses.

_Bess?_ And yet the hair tumbling down her shoulders in long tresses is too blond, too light to be his firstborn daughter’s, almost silvery…

A doubt seizes him as he tiptoes closer, careful not to frighten her; one immediately put to ease when he finally glimpses her eyes, green and sharp as a cat’s – this is not his favourite daughter, but an unfamiliar diminutive version of her lady mother, his wife Elizabeth.

A spontaneous laugh rises to Edward’s lips. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined to ever see Lisbet in such a seemingly innocuous form, her green orbs full of childish innocence instead of cunning political scheming. As amused as he is, he thinks it doesn’t fit her in the slightest.

The doll in the little girl’s arms looks familiar too, he realizes. Blond hair under a jeweled coronet, and a crimson velvety outfit he has just seen merely a couple of hours before; it is a perfect image of his Edward, and that makes the whole scenario even more ironic to Ned – watching this miniature version of his wife playing at mommy with their child. Dreamland surely is one weird place…

It seems his mind has decided this strange family reunion is not quite complete yet though, because right then another tiny figure appears from the small paths crossing the rose garden, small forehead furrowing deeply under his rebel dark curls in sighting Elizabeth. An instant smile blossoms on Ned’s lips in recognizing Dickon as he remembers him, popped out of a time – now almost as surreal to him as the dream keeping him hostage – when he was just Edward, Earl of March; and he is assaulted by a stab of the same fierce protectiveness he’s always felt for that same wiry yet determined boy, who used to look at him as if he truly believed him to be Saint George’s or Saint Michael’s next earthly incarnation.

Torn between nostalgia and curiosity, he watches him edge closer to the gilt-haired girl in cautious steps…only to launch himself into something so unlike the quiet Dickon from his memories that the sight makes him jerk in shock.

Appalled, he watches on as the dark-haired boy predatorily assaults little Lisbet, like a hawk suddenly spotting a prey within range of its claws, starting a fierce squabble with the girl over her velvet-and-ermine-clad doll. His miniature wife obstinately fights back, shrieking in outrage; she forcibly tries to pull the poor rag princeling closer, set upon not letting go of her toy for any reason in the world, little nails clawing into its rich cape…

A sudden, dreadful sound of tearing fabric, and everything’s over.

The little girl falls to the ground with a loud thump, and her wide green eyes fill with tears in realizing all she’s holding between her hands is a single arm from her doll, mercilessly torn where the shoulder should be. She cannot see the haughty way Dickon doesn’t even spare her a glance, set only to admiring his new trophy…or rather its shiniest ornament.

It is a sort of horrified fascination that prevents Ned from tearing his eyes away from the boy's so-very-familiar yet so-very-foreign face, glued to him as he lifts the small coronet from the doll’s blond hair, suddenly solemn before placing it on his own head. It is, of course, way too small to fall on his forehead as it should, yet the gold glints prettily on his brother’s head in sharp contrast with the dark waves of his hair, bathing in light and firmness his whole lean figure.

Dickon’s lips curve in a proud smile.

Broken and already forgotten, the rag doll tumbles forsaken at his feet.

 

Edward wakes up in a cacophony of throbbing pain splitting his head in two, like a thousand red-hot pins stabbing his temples every time he tries to open his eyes to the blinding morning light mercilessly invading every corner of his private rooms – and of his bed, whose curtains he must have forgotten to close in his drunken state from the evening before. The first thing he manages to focus, as soon as his reddened eyes get accustomed to the light, is the wine flagon he emptied until the very last drop, ungraciously knocked over on his nightstand.

He shields his eyes with a grunt. Thank heavens he had at least retained enough good sense not to stumble into Lisbet’s bed the night before; if she had ever caught him waking up from such ridiculously absurd dreams she would have been sure to keep nagging at him, unfaltering, until he spilled out what had troubled him in detail…and God knows relations between his wife and his brothers are wary at their best already, without him adding to the mix some drunken delirium that is sure to have been induced by all that damn alcohol from the feast.

Poor Dickon, he thinks, what an ungrateful payback for his constant loyalty that would be.

_Just a dream. Yes. And never again another hangover of these proportions,_ he vows silently – a promise that, knowing himself, he’s going to find very hard to keep.

 

 


	4. iv. Selloff {richard}

It is usually his small, faraway family peopling his French nights.

Katherine, raven hair blowing in the wind as she climbs the steep steps of Middleham Castle, a cheerful laugh bursting on her lips; and calm and pensive Johnny, so much like his father at the same age, witnessing his sister’s bubbling excitement with an amused smile. Ned, his precious little Ned, squeaking happily while running around in the courtyard with his nanny on the chase.

And Anne. Most of the times it is light caresses from her tiny hands, or the copper-golden sea of her hair washed over his chest welcoming him into oblivion – planes and valleys of tender skin under his starved fingers, and their names chasing each other in echoing sighs as he drowns with her, _within_ her…

But not tonight.

Tonight it is his other family paying him a visit, the one that never before has been so close and yet so far from him at the same time – physically close as in residing in the span of a few tents from his, yet impossibly distant since he cannot, _refuses_ to believe in what Ned plans to do and George to accept with such readiness, anxious to secure the riches he apparently never gets enough of.

Here they are, his brothers, seated on an impossibly high pile of crates, shiny golden coins and silver plate, like two insatiable dragons guarding their treasures in children’s stories – and surely much as greedy. The similarity ends there, though, for they lack any dangerous, dragon-like fierceness while lying carelessly sprawled on their conquered (or rather _bought_ ) trinkets, drunken laughter bubbling on their lips and wine slashing out of the rim of their cups, smearing their fine doublets with dark blotches. He listens at the suspicious slur in their voices as they exchange bawdy tunes between them, apparently unaware of spectators; and his stomach churns with burning shame.

When they finally notice him standing below, they look down on him with eyes that are pitying and mocking at the same time; and he watches as they sneeringly toast to the good health of their naïve little brother who still likes to play Knights of the Round Table. The aroma of wine is sharp and acrid, the very same smell permeating the feasting English camp for days since the announcement of the upcoming treaty with King Louis; the very same, nauseating scent invading his nostrils as he opens his eyes again on the reality he’d rather not be there to see, where the honour of his country is nothing more than just another glittery object to bargain with.

_We are the three sons of York. And none shall divide us!_

Yet never like in this moment he feels as if he doesn’t know them at all. George has ever been smart with words; but facts, ah…those have always kind of eluded him.

He knows that, in time, his outrage will soften and he’ll end up forgiving them; they are his brothers, and he may as well unlearn how to trust them – but never to care, in spite of everything.

For now, all Richard can do is kneel in front of the crucifix in his tent, and pray God to grant him endurance for the selloff he will have to witness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going along with history, and therefore George is very happy to get his share from the Treaty of Picquigny here ^^ (nothing like the crazy regency tantrum in TWQ. Really, PG? I don't think Ned would ever have been as stupid as to even mention such a possibility to him...)  
> This section came out very short compared to the others - sorry! Didn't feel like over-describing this particular dream. The next chapters will all be longer.
> 
> Next: George gets an unexpected visit in the Tower.


	5. v. Death and conversation {george}

 

There’s someone in his room.

His brain instinctively dismisses the notion as impossible; no one is allowed to visit him in the Tower, nor there are many willing to risk royal displeasure in doing so anyway. However, George is pretty sure he can make out a dark shape into half-light – and, for a fleeting moment, foolish hope takes hold of his heart.

“Ned…?” he whispers brokenly. Perhaps his brother has changed his mind, perhaps he’ll finally want to see him, talk to him, and maybe he’ll just let him go and all this would have been just a device to give him a scare…or perhaps he’s just going insane, and this is exactly what Edward wants: make even death look more desirable to him than this forlorn helplessness and solitude swallowing him whole.

He would expect anything in response, save the burst of genuine, strangely familiar laughter echoing in his prison-room.

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered for being mistaken for the King, or deeply offended. I don’t think I’ve ever been as round as our brother lately is.”

No, not Ned.

George doesn’t need to wait for the figure to move under the light, revealing a bright blond mane of hair, to go pale as snow. There’s no doubt anymore – he _must_ be going mad; there’s no other explanation.

“You…you can’t…you’re…”

“Dead?” finishes Edmund, a kind, almost cheerful smile gracing his lips. He hasn’t changed a bit since the very last time he saw him, young and handsome and fierce and solemn, ready to follow their father into battle with all the enthusiasm of a seventeen-year-old; while all of them have lived and grown, and George is not quite sure they’ve done it for the best.

“Aye, I had a couple of decades to get used to the idea – and so should you, brother.”

“Edmund…” George stammers, short for words. It is so strange to note the contrast between his childhood memories, in which his older brothers both look as golden giants up their horses, blindingly tall and unreachable, and the way his brother looks so impossibly _young_ now compared to himself. “Why…why are you here?”

“Oh, I have always been around,” he answers quietly, sitting on the edge of George’s bed with utmost ease. “I have watched you three fool around in turns for the longest time. Sometimes I wonder how Mother still keeps her sanity with the lot of you…but then again, she’s always been the strongest woman I’ve ever known.” An affectionate smile blooms on his lips. “The real question is, why are _you_ able to see _me_ in this particular moment. I’m afraid the veil between our worlds is not destined to hold out for much longer, little brother.”

George blinks without understanding; and then, suddenly, what his brother means dawns on him. “No! Ned wouldn’t…he couldn’t…I am his _brother_!”

He has thought he would prefer death to the hopeless nothingness of this solitary custody at the Tower, but now that the possibility becomes realer an icy dread clutches his insides in an iron grip.

Edmund’s honest eyes grow sad. “There are many things I would never have thought possible, and yet they happened in these years past. You yourself betrayed Ned, more than once, and him being not only our brother but also your King didn’t stop you then. And Dickon…” His eyes get lost in a distant vision, and he grows even more somber. “Sooner or later Dickon, too, will be forced to a choice that will lead him, whatever happens, to betray something he believes in, and I fear this will destroy him too…”

“ _Betray_ and _Dickon_ in the same sentence? Are you sure you’ve been watching us for as long as you think, brother?” George bursts in hysterical laughter; drawing out his claws, as he always does when truly, deep down, he’s terrified. “Dickon might as well trade sigils with that Lovell – a dog would be more suitable to him!”

“Your tongue has ever been sharp whenever you felt cornered.” Edmund’s gaze turns hard, making him feel a boy of ten caught in the middle of mischief all over again. “If you had learned a thing or two from Dickon perhaps you would not be here now.”

There’s only truth within his words. In this, too, Edmund has stayed exactly as he remembers him, quietly, unusually perceptive, a young man of few words but with an uncanny ability to read people around him, something all of his three brothers are, to different extent, not as good at.

He would have been a good king, George thinks.

“I don’t want to die, Ed,” he confesses suddenly, in an act of vulnerability he has allowed only one, in his whole adult life, to get glimpses of at times – his sweet Isabel, so horribly suffocated by her own blood…just as he will die suffocating himself, he realizes, gasping for air in a barrel full of the Queen’s favourite wine. Worst of all is that he has chosen this death himself, thinking of mocking that witch; thinking that answer would just remain one of his many stunts, because Ned would never truly bring himself to such lengths.

Perhaps he really is no more than a fool, as the bloody Woodvilles would say.

He wouldn’t even notice his violent trembling if it weren’t for Edmund’s strong hand closing firmly on his shoulder, as if wanting to instill courage.

“Dying is the easy part,” he says, almost lightly. “It is those moments before the final blow…those seconds when you know she’s coming to take you, when you thrash about like a trapped animal, that are truly horrifying.” His eyes seem to harden again, caught into painful memories – a battle, a bridge, and bloody snow. But then his head turns to face him again, and his is the encouraging, conspiratorial look he used to sport when he taught him how to use a bow, amused by his frenzied, childish impatience.

“But don’t worry. I will be there to catch you on the other side.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of Edmund as the "voice of reason" among the brothers. I like to imagine that, had he lived, Ned would've had a good counselor by his side (a sort of "other self" to relate to, since they were so close in age too) and perhaps some things would have been different...also, George would not have been Edward's heir before he had sons, and this could have changed things for him too. Eugh, I just wish he didn't have to die so soon :(
> 
> If you noticed a pattern in the chapters by now, you'll know whose is up next :)


	6. vi. Into darkness {edward}

Breathing gets harder.

Every exhale comes out in a rattle that echoes horribly into the stunned room, and the heat suffocating him from every direction makes his sight blur – but not enough to prevent him from awareness of his surroundings.

All the various Morton, Stanleys, Rotherham are circling his bed with heads down and contrived sorrow on their faces; and, at opposite sides of the bed, his stepson Thomas and Will Hastings are shaking hands under his request, in a mutual sign of goodwill.

If he still could, they would hear him laughing between himself, _of_ himself, as they had so often seen him doing in the past; so he is still King enough to command their deference, to keep them together in spite of everything – even while probably looking like Death herself by now. At least the decay of his body hasn’t taken this from him, yet. But as soon as he’s dead, then…already he can sense bloodlust filling his men, an iron will to give battle over what will remain of his bones. Even Will’s, his dear Will’s eyes, perhaps the only pair of genuinely reddened ones in the whole chamber, grow hard and icy every time they meet Thomas Grey’s; and the sudden, all-too-clear vision of the rivalries he has never taken more seriously than childish squabbling is enough to plunge him into despair, to make him feel desperately alone even while so literally surrounded by his courtesans.

A grimace sprouts to his fevered face, and everyone attributes it to physical pain – they don’t know how wrong they are.

“You truly look horrible, brother.”

Edward’s eyes twitch open again; in the unnatural stillness clouding the blurrier-by-the-minute room, a lone figure twirls around almost as if dancing, snuffing out candles here and there like a mischievous puck and casting the chamber deeper and deeper into darkness.

A faint smile flutters on Ned’s lips; he would recognize that impudent swagger, as if owner of the room, in a million. What a delicious irony that he must have longed so ardently, and in vain, for the presence of one brother at his deathbed, and instead fate sends him the other – the one that has tormented his conscience constantly over his last years.

“Likewise, George” he replies; and he’s astounded by the easy, steady way the words flow from his mouth, when mere seconds before every syllable of his last will has felt like burning coal pierced into his chest.

His brother lifts his head as he blows on the chandelier at the centre of the table, and shoots him one of his trademark sarcastic smiles, in total contrast with the rest of his appearance – face half-pale half-livid, and a shirt once white now dripping with crimson malmsey. He would be an horrific enough apparition to petrify the bravest of men, but he acts as so casually, so insolently _George_ that Ned can’t feel frightened by him.

“At least _I_ didn’t reduce myself to my current state all on my own, brother. I heard I should thank some Edward chap for this…d’you happen to know him, perhaps?”

Ned laughs feebly, as he watches him suffocate the flames in the hearth beneath the ashes. “I would have never believed I would actually end up saying this, but…I admit this impertinence of yours has been missed for some time.”

The smile on George’s lips widens, and for a moment it looks almost genuine and not all mocking as his habit – or perhaps it’s just a trick of the increasingly fading light.

“So you regret it? Putting me to death?”

Edward flinches at the sudden serious question in the middle of that eerily light conversation. A sick coughing spasm takes hold of him, and his eyes cloud.

“Every day. But if you’re asking me if I would have acted any different in hindsight…” He leaves the sentence hanging, studying his brother and trying to imprint his ghoulish look into his mind – one of many consequences of actions he will never be able to change, and for which he will have to pray for the Almighty’s mercy in a short while. He will need Him to be very merciful, he suspects.

“…the answer is no. You never realized when you trespassed a limit, George. You left me no choice.”

George shrugs, his interest in the answer already fleeting – in this, too, typically himself – as he continues with the task he has assigned to himself. One after the other, the candles by the feet of the bed are put out in a flutter, and the royal chambers plunge deeper into the night.

“Maybe you’ll also regret not having done an equally proper job with some of these… _elements_ , here” he comments, lips curling in disgust while his eyes wander among the dark shapes crowding around the canopy bed. “I am good at spotting sparks of betrayal in the eyes of men – after all, you’ll have to agree there’s no greater expert on this matter than me, is there, Ned?”

He sneers as his eyes find his royal brother again, and they are full of biting, bitter irony. “And this room is like a fuse ready to catch fire. Tell me something, Ned; these men you have surrounded yourself with – people you’d like to surround your son with, too – have they deserved to live so much more than I did?”

Edward cannot, will not answer; he doesn’t even know which, and desperately tries to convince himself it is just because of the air growing more and more suffocating as darkness still envelops the chamber further, or the circle of fire closing in again around his throat.

“A right fine harvest you’ve left for Dickon, in truth.” George blows the candle on the other side of his bed, cloaking the frozen faces around him in complete shadow. There is just a single flame left crackling in the dark, the one on Edward’s nightstand; and the King can barely find the strength to turn his face and watch it dance, watch as the wax liquefies in tiny droplets – the same he feels must be happening to him, so much burning heath is scorching him.

Dickon…poor lad. He deserved better than having to spend years of his life fixing his mistakes.

“But at least, for good or ill, he will be remembered. They will talk about him in years…perhaps centuries to come. Who would have thought it of our quiet little brother, grown up as your second shadow?” George shakes his head to himself as he circles the bed in light strides; it is difficult to make out his expression underneath the long shadows the only remaining source of light paints on his face, but Edward knows he’s amused.

“While you, brother…at least I will be proven right about you, I believe. You too will be remembered…”

Edward watches him getting closer, struggles to keep focus through his feverish eyes.

As he bends over the last candle, George shoots him one last arrogant, triumphant smile.

“…For being fat and lazy.”

The last surviving flame dies out in a puff; and the Sun in Splendour of York is no more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going along with history, so Richard is not in London as Ned dies. I felt a bit bad about giving him such a depressing farewell...but George would not be George if he didn't appear as his snarky self to his brother, would he?  
> I obviously could not resist quoting our sneering Clarence directly from ep.7 in the final line, but of course I don't think poor Edward is to be remembered just for that, even though he did ruin himself with his own hands...it just sounds absurd for a warrior king like he had been to die at forty like that. :(  
> (Also, translating the line about Richard "being remembered for centuries" just makes me think of the video I've just finished about these three...but that's another story entirely. ^^)
> 
> Next: Richard's dreams are plagued by Edwards of different sorts.


	7. vii. A son for a son {richard}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horribly sad chapter...you've been forewarned. *goes hiding*

 

Somebody is shaking him to wake him up, and Richard whimpers, voice drowsy with the sleep he’s deprived himself of for too many nights.

He doesn’t even know when, or how he’s fallen asleep; out of sheer exhaustion, most likely. Too many sleepless nights spent in a blur of audiences and letters – so _many_ letters – with a dull, constant headache exploding at his crowned temples, before thoughts had eventually become too many, and too insistent, and he had gone seeking instinctive refuge in his usual safe haven, into Anne’s arms – succeeding only in hurting them both all over again.

He has not been gentle with her, has taken her all hopeless rage and frustration; they have made love with shattering desperation, clutching and scraping and choking on a twisted mixture of pleasure and tears, anguish filtering through frantic kisses – and how could he just delude himself it would be otherwise, when even in the privacy of their bed it’s still like having the eyes of their whole court fixed on them? When he cannot even touch her without feeling those malignant stares following him every day, wondering why he must be so stubborn in keeping a barren Queen by his side? When the whole world would have them conceive a new heir, and they still have death in their hearts for the son they’ve lost?

_Ned…_ Whoever is hitting him on the shoulder has small but relentless hands, and Richard buries under layers of unfeeling steel the memory of his son, smiling and proud and barely containing his excitement during the celebrations in York for his investiture as Prince of Wales. So full of life, so different from the cold, bloodless little body he had hugged one last time in disbelief, incapable of coming to terms with the truth of it all…

But he _cannot_ think about that, he just can’t; he’s the King of England, and kings can’t afford to look weak to anyone, he thinks as he forces his eyes open on whomever is urging him with such insistence.

In the space of a blink, all the resolve he’s just gathered melts like ice under the heat of the sun.

As if he has evoked him, it is his son’s clear eyes staring back at him from mid-height, Anne’s blue eyes framed into his childish face reflecting Richard’s astonished stare – as if it were just another winter morning from a different time, when Ned would sneak into his parents’ chambers to enthusiastically wake them up to see the first snow of the year.

_My boy…_

Richard rises on his elbows, disbelieving, and he can feel the beginnings of treacherous tears stinging in his eyes; yet, when he reaches out, as much as he wants to he cannot touch him.

A hand creeps up, unfaltering, on Ned’s shoulder, keeping him out of reach. A large, strong hand, one used to command, and upon it a wide ruby ring – the very same ring passed down through generations of kings, and which now it is Richard’s habit to wear.

It feels as if he has to rise his eyes to the ceiling to take his whole figure in. Edward – _his brother_ Edward – is impossibly tall, looms on his small namesake and on Richard, handsome and imposing like in his prime of life, resplendent like the sun in his personal emblem. He is as if come out of Richard’s most vivid childhood memories – except for a single, terrible detail. His brother’s eyes are like pointed daggers upon him; they burn menacing with disdain, with disappointment, like two glowing embers. As such he must have appeared to his enemies; and Richard cannot stand the utter contempt in his glare, he who never before has had to bear its weight – and he can feel himself trembling under that frightful scrutiny.

Edward’s grip is irony, firmly closed on his nephew’s arm, digging his nails into the little boy’s flesh until blood starts seeping through his flimsy shirt.

_“A son for a son, brother mine”_ he simply states; and the words are like a physical slap, a blow so hard that Richard wakes with a start, for real this time, covers in a tangled heap around his waist and icy sweat running down his back, his breath ragged as if after a long run.

“Richard!”

Anne runs to him from the other side of the room, long hair and nightgown flowing in a cloud around her; and Richard is too shaken to ask her what she’s doing awake and out of bed when there’s still no sign of morning light coming up – too shocked, and he will curse himself for it later, to notice the light rasp in her own breath, as if trying to stifle some coughing.

“Richard, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“Ned…”

It is the only word that escapes his lips, in a strangled voice; and he doesn’t even know whom he is really referring to – their boy, or his brother, or even that other Edward, his brother’s son, the nephew he had vowed to care for like he were his own, the boy he had sworn fealty to like to a king, and who instead had seen both crown and life stolen from him under his uncle’s _protection_.

“Shh, it was just a bad dream, beloved, just a dream…” Anne folds him firmly into her arms, lulls him like she would have their Ned, caressing strands of sticky dark hair away from his forehead.

Before the world she has always been small and frail, and he her saviour; but behind closed doors she is his rock, and Richard presses his face against her breasts as if she could shield him from every evil. As if she could protect him from the inacceptable eventuality that his brother’s accusations might be nothing other than the truth – because it might as well have been Buckingham who mercilessly smothered the lives of the poor little princes in the Tower; but who else but himself, with his blind trust, had armed his hand?

 

 


	8. viii. A bed of white roses {henry}

 

The earth violently quavers underneath him, under the feet of his men, as if collapsing.

It is as if the rage of the Almighty wants to sink them all, leaving no trace of their passage; and he can glimpse flashes of superstitious fear in the eyes of the soldiers in his personal guard, flickers of terror that seize him too for a moment.

_What if my mother is wrong? What if God is not really on our side as she says?_

Then he sees them. This is no earthquake; it is the thundering hooves of numberless horses driven galloping downhill, in a giant human and animal tide of bright banners, reins, spurs and pointy blades raised to the sky – a tide set on crashing right against him, on washing him away with the power of its waves.

At its head there is no man, but a machine. The warrior king seems to be made of sole steel, much like his inflexible will; the golden circlet around his head burns like a crown of flames, and his armored body is one with that of his white stallion riding at breakneck speed, getting closer and closer. He looks like an avenging Archangel Michael; and above the confusion among his men, who tighten their ranks around him as best as they can, pointing their pikes outwards, the pretender can feel a twinge of amazed admiration for the enemy he should hate more than anything in this world, the foe who even now promises him death on the edge of his sword.

The crash between the two lines of men is gruesome. Blood saturates the air yet again as some riders are knocked off their horses; while others -many others- reap victims like they would mow wheat, and most of all the warrior king swings sword and axe around him like a blinding demon, unstoppable in his wrath. His blows find a soldier, and then another, as he tears flesh with his blades like the boar on his sigil would with its jagged fangs.

The dragon standard teeters, crumples, falls crushed beneath the inferno of bodies; but the pretender has stopped being afraid, and doesn’t falter in seeing his enemies so dangerously close.

Why should he? He remembers now, he remembers perfectly.

He _knows_ how this will end.

This is the moment when his stepfather moves from the safe position he has refused to abandon until now; the moment when his men and his brother’s, like one giant eagle, dive on the prey left exposed to them, devouring it. The moment when the wild boar is finally killed, and brought in triumph to the new king’s table.

But the pretender is mistaken.

This time there is no charge; no cries of “For Tudor!” before the final plunge from an unexpected direction. Everything happens too fast, in a frenzied mess of shouting, desperate strikes and pain, searing pain exploding around him, inside of him, _everywhere_. His horse neighs brokenly and he finds himself falling down, falling and colliding with the hard ground and barely noticing because of the torturous ache eating him up, taking hold of every inch of his body at once.

The next thing he’s aware of is to be lying down in a meadow covered with white roses, painting them scarlet with his blood; and the pretender knows he has lost.

The warrior king observes his agony from above with a mixture of sadness and deadly tiredness alternating on his face – a much different expression from the triumph the pretender could have imagined to find there. His eyes move slowly from his enemy’s devastated body to the helmet he’s now holding between gauntleted fingers; the helmet where a dull crown is now sitting, marred with blood and dirt and sweat from the battle. The pretender watches him carefully slid the coronet from its metal frame and turn it between his hands, studying it with pensive eyes half-hidden by strands of raven hair…

And then he lets it slip, almost casually. The crown falls heavy on the pretender’s chest, with a loud smack cutting his already ragged breath off his lungs; and he stares at his nemesis with wide eyes, without understanding.

“You can keep it,” the warrior king tells him; and there is no single hint of hesitation in his voice. “Keep it, and find out yourself how much happiness it can truly bring you.”

Astonished, the pretender lets his enemy leap over his body in one determined stride, grey-blue eyes now fixed on the horizon and the ghost of a smile softening his battle-hardened features. Even the smallest movement feels like trying to lift an impossibly heavy boulder, but the pretender manages to gather enough strength to turn his head, following him as he walks towards the light.

Three shadows are waiting for him close by. The uncrowned king goes up to them, and the pretender can hear them laugh softly from afar, watching as they hug each other like friends long lost and now found again.

Then, together, the four men walk away, their shapes glowing in backlight like four little suns, leaving him to die a slow death on his bed of white roses.

 

Henry VII of England wakes with the iron taste of blood still in his mouth, and he can’t get any sleep for the rest of the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, blame my last September exam and a weekend away from home!  
> So this is the last section, and everything ends at Bosworth, as it should (and quite unavoidable since I wrote this whole thing full of post-Bosworth feels), but hopefully not the way you perhaps expected ^^  
> Would love to hear your final thoughts, and thank you so much for all the reviews so far!


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